Mass Murder
by Redentor
Summary: A story of friendship and family, of trials and tribulations. Of what six friends can be driven to do if the motivation is right, and how far they will go to set things right. In loving memory of Affian Muhammad Arif. We miss you brother. Rated M for realism, emotional themes and violence. Six Self-Inserts and multiple OC's.
1. Introduction

**Introduction**

People spend many years of their lives searching for that life goal. That special something that they want to do before they die. Someone to love forever more, a home to live in and call your own, a job to excel at, or an achievement of merit that secures your place in the annuals of history. Since the age of nineteen, my wish was absurdly simple: To go home.

At first glance that could be done easily. If you know exactly where your home is, like we do, you can never be more than one diameter of the Earth away from your home. Problem is we are no longer on Earth. Still no problem if you look at it logically. If you managed to get off-world, can't you return the same way you came?

Also true I suppose, but still not that simple. I'm not in the right dimension. A bunch of fucking pricks orchestrated my demise, and the death of my friends and brought us here, where we struggle to survive on a daily basis. We were just yanked away, no goodbyes, no time to prepare, and dumped off like refuse, ready to be collected by the local garbage disposal. Guess they thought it would be funny, and for all I know, one of the fuckers is laughing at me right now. They thought we would be dead by now, I know that for sure. One of them told me as much; as if I didn't already know my life was teetering on the edge of destruction. I know now that I will never achieve that life goal I set at nineteen. I'm in my fifties now, older in mind than in body, at peace with the fact that I will never see home again.

That is not the end of me however; I still live, if only at the behest of those who would engineer my downfall for their own entertainment. They expect me to welcome their judgement and even walk too it gladly, like a lamb to slaughter. How little they understand about human nature. No, we will fight, and make them regret what they have done. No quarter, no stepping back or tapping out. We lay down our lives, so that they may die.

-From the Final Will and Testament of Markus Broye,

Major General,

Counter Intelligence,

Operation Initiative,

Retired.

A/N: Well here it starts ladies and gentleman. Redentor Publications has been working on this for almost a year now. I can't say that it hasn't been hard, because writing something of this scale at times, feels impossible. I doubted my resolve so many times, I've been living under the assumption that I have none for weeks now. But Affian would want us to finish this, and so it shall be finished. Even if I have to force myself to write every word, I will do this. For Affian.


	2. Cry Havoc

**Cry Havoc…**

Illium was known throughout the galaxy as the centre of commercial business. They agreed on this in the same was that people agreed that the Citadel was a cultural hub. While on the Citadel Batarians, Humans, Elcor and Hanar alike where seen as just everyday scenery, Illium was the home of wealthy Asari, Volus businessmen and Salarian scientists who had made it big in their chosen field. Pockets were fat, laws were loose, goods were expensive and if you were unlucky enough to be one of the spurned races, Quarian for example, racism was a natural fall-back. Poor was not a word often used on Illium.

Adam Warden turned away from one of the many magnificent views that dotted the overhanging walkways. And what walkways they were. Huge constructions that hung over steep drops to the ground far below, supported by massive struts, and weighed down by shoppers going about their daily routine. He had only one thought in his mind, one that he often wondered, but never asked until he was alone with someone who understood his point of view. Luckily, Carl McCandless sat not twelve inches away from him, in a metal bench that sagged dangerously under the weight.

McCandless was human, like Adam Warden, but there the physical similarities stopped. He was seven foot eight, well above Adams five foot eleven. His dark brown hair was cut long, and greasy, like he never had the time to wash it. The streaks of grey denoted an advanced age for a man so large; people of similar stature usually died young. Muscles rippled as he turned the virtual page of his datapad, no doubt reading up on particle physics, or whatever the hyper-intelligent monster was interested in nowadays.

"What a way to live, aye Carl?"

The giant shrugged, "Illium Amalgamated is the largest corporate empire in the know galaxy, bar one. Don't think of it as a planet, think of it as a massive chain of shopping malls." Warden grinned widely and passed Carl a small grey chip that the huge Irishman took carefully and tucked into the inside of his jacket pocket.

"What's the largest corporate empire then?"

"Ours," he replied evenly, Adam's smile widened by a few molars, prompting Carl's swift rebuttal.

"Though we are both aware that I practically run this operation by myself."

Adam's hand flashed to his heart, as his face contorted in mock indignation. "Ohh, where did that come from? That hurt right here man, right here!"

He slapped his chest a few times to illustrate his point, then lent pack on the barrier that separated him from a very long drop down the side of the building below. It wouldn't matter if he fell, there were force fields erected around the circumference to prevent jumpers, as well as shielding from wind currents so far up, and the usual accidents. "Anyway, I put a lot of blood, sweat and tears into this business. I deserve as much credit as you," he maintained, and as an addition he added, "And I would get it too if you weren't so harsh on me."

"Bullshit, we both know that you're just a face, a PR stuntman. Also," Carl's tone quickly became judgemental, "man? You're Irish Adam, be Irish!" The giant had wrung his hands in a comical fashion as he spoke, making Warden Grin. To see someone of his size acting so much like a child was one of the few things that made Warden smile these days. It helped that Carl was wearing a suit, special made by Frosdick of London as part of a million credit set Adam had gifted him for Christmas.

"What can I say, Americanisms are contagious. Why have you always got to put me down?"

"I'm your friend, and as such it is my solemn duty to put you in your place," he returned the grin proffered with equal enthusiasm, making it look condescending.

"We can't have you getting complacent in the middle of an operation, can we?"

A crackle issued from Adam's concealed earpiece, signalling the end of the conversation. That crackle meant the mic had been turned on from the other side of the connection, and considering that radio silence was SOP (Standard Operation Procedure) until their target was in line of sight, Adam and Carl must be needed.

"We have a confirmed visual on the target, over," an electronically distorted voice declared across the radio link. Two more pairs of eyes joined the four already scanning the skies. Adam reached behind his back and racked the slide on his pistol. It was a heavy weapon, mostly carried for sentimental purposes, but despite its antique design it could still penetrate a Krogan's shields and armour in two shots. The Deadshot 10mm pistol was the workhorse of an era long gone.

"Solid copy Overwatch, do you have a threat evaluation? Over."

They waited for a response, tense, but at the same time deliberately loose in the body.

"Negative Sir, target is flying in on the rapid transport system. All of his lower body is obscured. ETA on targets arrival, one mike, over."

Carl checked his own weapon, which was considerably more modern, and more sizable than Adam's. His stature allowed him to conceal it just as effectively as his companion did his. "Roger that Overwatch, maintain visual contact and keep us posted, over."

Adam and Carl both moved away from the bench and towards the cover of the stalls, and then out into the short corridor beyond. The passageway led off the walkway and onto firmer ground, a wide open area similar to that of an actual shopping mall. Warden knew that if he continued walking he would find an identical passage on the other side of the huge open hallway, which led to another walkway full of similarly lavish and gaudy wares.

However, he also knew that one level above them, connected by multiple elevators was a docking bay for rapid transit pods. In point of fact it looked more akin to a multi-storey car park than a docking bay, but that was in the nature of buildings such as this. More than a billion people passed through Illium daily on their hunt for the perfect coffee table, and transport had to be provided for all of them.

"Be advised Stalker, the target is on the ground, threat evaluation is as follows: Two Blue Suns mercenaries, Turian, heavy armour and armament. Intel broker is also Turian, unarmoured with concealed pistols on his ankle, and in the hollow on his lower right side, break."

They stood and waited, digesting the new information while waiting for Overwatch to continue their transmission. They did not have to wait long. "Stalker, Overwatch 1-3 has intercepted a signal from targets location. Tracing and triangulating now, break."

Adam gave Carl a look, then focused his gaze straight forward once again. Their understanding was thus: The new development was of no consequence, stay the course.

"Triangulation complete, we have seven new, possibly hostile contacts arrayed at your one, four and eight o'clock. Squad sized detachment, two man team, and sniper respectively. Please advise, over."

Adam, for lack of a better analogy, was so surprised, that Carl had to knock him on the shoulder to make him come around. If they had brought backup then these people, whoever they were, were not the Shadow Brokers men. The Broker had agreed to send two guards, no more, no less. He immediately pulled out a pair of sunglasses and nodded towards Carl's jacket pocket, "OpTech on."

They slid on the shades, and pulled a small wire-like connector from the temple arm and looped it around the back of their ears, where it would be less visible. They then slotted them into their earpieces, and pressed a small button located on the underside of the frame. Instantly Adam felt a tingling sensation, as the synthetic network interwoven with his nervous-system connected to both the "shades", and his wrist computer.

"Overwatch, we will let the target approach as if everything is to go as scheduled, and once we know their intentions, we shall act accordingly, over."

McCandless could be heard over the hustle and bustle of Illium rush jour, and Adam spared a few seconds and diverted his attention to his partner. "OpTech connecting to the network in five, four, three, two, one, _Zero_."

Warden did not so much hear the last word, as he felt it. It resonated through him as the artificial neurons in his spinal cord and brain ignited into glorious action. The lenses of the sunglasses now wired into his brain flickered, and suddenly Adam was looking at the world through enlightened eyes. Far above, he could see the red outlines of the two man team through several feet of reinforced metal.

At his one o'clock there were four more red outlines hidden among the crowd on his level, keeping their distance so he wouldn't spot them. Unfortunately for them, Overwatch had, and through OpTech, they could act, see, and fight as one solid force. It was Geth technology, reverse engineered by McCandless to produce an effect similar to a Hive Mind. As usual, he had hit the nail on the head, and produced something that would have revolutionised warfare if Warden hadn't deliberately kept it off the market.

"Warden for Overwatch 1 Actual, OpTech check, over."

"Warden, this is Overwatch 1 Actual, reading your data transmission five by five, over."

Blue outlines popped up on the HUD as OpTech loaded the team's personal data. One outline was behind the wall next to four man squad, 1-2 taking the up close and personal work for himself. 1-1, or Overwatch 1 Actual was further into the maintenance shafts, closing up with the two man team.

Overwatch 1-3 and 1-4 were behind Adam and Carl, in counter sniping position. "Squad, what is targets ETA to my position, over?"

"Sir, this is Overwatch 1 Actual, less than three mikes. Interrogative, what is our contingence plan, over?"

"The two man team and the sniper are priority targets, once they are down self-designate at your discretion until all hostiles are neutralised. Leave the Turian in the suit though, we take him alive. How copy, over?"

"Solid copy on all Warden, Krazy Ace is holding ten clicks out for extraction, over."

Adam slipped his hands into the pockets of his luxurious Kiton, now desperately wishing he had left the suit at home. It was not an original Saville Row of course, but an equally smooth knockoff that had cost him 100,000 credits. His only satisfaction came from the knowledge that Carl's suit would be ruined as well by the end of this debacle. The pair stood and waited while watching the effect of his orders on their team. Overwatch 1-2 was tailing the four man detachment as best he could from behind the metal partition that separated employee only areas from the main mall. No-one would see him, he was a ghost to everyone but them.

Overwatch 1-1 was behind the two man team, waiting for the order to double tap both of them in the back of the head. Overwatch 1-3 had his rifle at the ready and aimed at the sniper that had his head slightly exposed over the lip of his skyway. If a firefight did break out, Carl and he would have plenty of cover. Between the decorative raised flower beds encased in glass cases and the stalls and advertising stands that littered the huge hall, they could take on the four man squad with ease.

However, the sniper and two man team had elevated positions, and would be in the perfect position to pick off the two men below. That was why they were unknowingly marked as priority targets.

"Well, let's see what this is all about shall we Carl?"

The giant nodded his assent, glasses on, and datapad tucked away for him to finish at a later date. "Sir, target should be coming into visual contact with you now, over."

No sooner had the words been spoken than did Warden see the three Turians appear through the crowd, outlined, just as their companions were, in red. The escorts were armed with M-15 Vindicator assault rifles, while the scanner in his shades identified the pistol concealed in the targets suit to be a Striker.

The three Turians stopped before the two humans, and they stared at each other for less than a moment before Adam broke the silence. "I have the money, if you would be so kind as to show me the data I requested."

The elegantly dressed Turian snorted, and motioned for his two companions to move forward. They did, standing on either side of the human partners, weapons not yet raised but held ready none the less. Adam made a show of turning to look at the two Blue Sun mercenaries, surprise etched on his face. "Five million credits, right?" the Turian replied finally, telling Adam that the fine suit the Turian wore was something way above his station in life. He spoke with a defined drawl that suggested a poor education, or at the very least a lack of interest in education.

"Five million credits is a lot of money," the Turian drawled on, oblivious to the thoughts that Warden concealed behind his mask of astonishment. "Well we ain't the Broker's lackeys Human, we want six million for this information, or we shot you and your friend and take the money you have on you." He pulled out two datapads that he waved in front of their faces like a man baiting a dog. That was all Warden needed to see.

The information was here, he was here, his team where here, and it just so happened that some people unfortunate enough to mistake him for a lesser man were standing in his way. There was one thing he had to know however.

"The Information Broker," Adam started haltingly, playing the part of a fearful rich man with ease, "What did you do to him?"

The Turian's mandibles twitched, forming the Turian version of a smile. It was an expression that Adam had first seen on the face of a foot soldier on Shanxi, 2157. A perverse expression of excitement and obscene pleasure that provoked feelings of disgust and of déjà vu from Warden. Most of all it triggered his ire, as he had, after a fashion a deep respect for life and basic human dignity.

The torture that the deceased Broker would have endured at the hands of these mercenaries would have made him scream for death many times over. Warden had seen people under a torturers knife before, and he would wish it on no-one. So before the Blue Sun merc could start his detailed description of the methods of torture utilised, Warden whispered into his OpTech, "Take them down."

What transpired was a wondrous display of controlled military grade violence, confined within in but a few seconds. Three to be precise; Adam knew down to the exact millisecond later on in the day, once he had perused his OpTech feed.

The first second - Overwatch 1-1 slammed a booted foot into the back of an Asari's leg, dropping her to one knee with a swift and brutal crack. He then proceeded to shove her forwards through the maintenance hatch.

At the exact same moment that the boot came down, 1-2 detonated an explosive charge via his wrist computer, blowing a gaping hole in the metal partition. He leapt forwards as pieces of shrapnel were stopped dead by his shields, and into the smoke.

Overwatch 1-3 had fired a millisecond after 1-2's explosives detonated, sending a bullet speeding off over the hall far below. The huge boom of the rifle overpowered only by the detonation of 1-2's charge.

In the second that proceeded the first, Overwatch 1-1 had a combat knife in his hand and thrust sideways and upwards with the reversed blade. The Blue Sun merc in question was quick however, and improvised a blocking manoeuvre, wrapping his hands around 1-1's wrist.

Overwatch 1-2 burst through the smoke and let loose a hail of gunfire from his assault rifle, throwing one of the two Blue Sun's that survived the blast into a small ornamental garden. He turned and ducked low in one instant, acquiring his one remaining target.

By this time, Carl had picked up one of the mercenaries guarding their target, and slammed him bodily into the ground. It had helped that Overwatch 1-2's entrance had served doubly as a distraction. Adam had pulled his Deadshot and blind fired from behind his back, dropping the other with two 10mm body shots. The spent cases bounced off his back as they were ejected, so hot he could feel their impacts as they scorched his once pristine white shirt.

He looked up in time to see Carl knock the Striker from the Turian's grasp, and grab its wrist with his enormous hands. The giant twisted until he heard the crack over the screaming of civilians, and the cries of the dying. Adam was also in time to see a second Blue armoured figure fall from the hatch far above, to land not feet away from the first.

He saw Overwatch 1-2 double-tap his last hostile as bullets annihilated the air where his head had been moments ago. One bullet caught the Salarian mercenary in the throat, the second in the top of the head, ejecting brain-matter and blue blood from a brand new hole.

He also imagined that he saw a flash as a 50. Calibre SMART round banked around a piece of flying debris from 1-2's blast, and shinning in the warm Illium sun, split the head of a Blue Sun sniper like an overripe melon. The third, and last second was over.

"This is Warden for Krazy Ace on OpTech, over."

"Warden, this is Krazy Ace, send your traffic, over."

Adam viciously kicked their Turian prisoner as he struggled under Carl's massive weight, sending the Mercenary in disguise to la-la land for the time being. "We require extraction for ourselves and one package of…" He glanced down at the "package" and shrugged, "…the Turian persuasion, how copy, over?"

Through the corner he could see Overwatch 1-2 and 1-1 relocating, and 1-3 as he took a peak at his handiwork through the scope of his rifle. 1-4 however, was providing flank security, as was his responsibility. No-one would sneak up on them while 1-4 had his remote drones in the air, scanning the surrounding area. The screaming and cries of pain from panicked or injured civilians was background noise, hardly noticed by any of the crew.

"Roger that Warden, extraction shall be from Landing Zone Mackie. Do your best to clear out local law enforcement before I get there, out."

Warden smiled in satisfaction, then nudged one of the M-15 Vindicators with his foot. Why would the Blue Suns mess with the Shadow Broker? It was like an accountancy firm picking a fight with the technicians who fixed their computers; it made no sense.

"This is Warden for all Overwatch elements, pull back to Landing Zone Mackie for extraction and keep clear of all law enforcement, how copy, over?"

"This is Overwatch 1-1, wilco, out."

"1-2 copies, out."

"1-3, roger that, out."

"1-4 copies all, out."

Adam turned to Carl, who hefted the unconscious Turian onto his shoulders. Its head lolled around like a rubber chicken, reminding Adam of a rather amusing incident two years ago. "So," Carl began coolly, as they strolled down the now deserted open hall, "do I want to know how you intend to deal with the local law enforcement?"

Warden laughed, and reached into McCandless' jacket pocket. With a flourish he extracted the grey chip he had given Carl not half an hour previously. "Illium Amalgamated has just been the victim of a malicious terrorist attack, orchestrated by an unknown third party who hired the Blue Suns to cause havoc….."

He flicked a small button on the underside of the chip, and brought up the credit chits holographic display. "We as concerned citizens are making a substantial donation of six million credits, in support of our favourite business competitor."

McCandless chuckled deeply, huge chest rising and falling like waves on the Pacific Ocean. "Like I said, a god damn PR stuntman."


	3. And let loose the Gods of War

…**And let loose the Gods of War.**

_People say that first contact was a relatively short affair, that three months after the fighting started the Citadel Council, ever vigilant to the plight of those under her dominion, arranged a ceasefire that ended that horrific conflict. Well I can tell you without a shadow of a doubt that the war went on, that real life is never as black and white as it was in the game. It's blood red, hidden underneath a layer of grey. The new war was fought by nameless, faceless, ruthless men who were paid to fight their races enemies. Because that's what the Turians are, I don't care what anyone says. You didn't see the first shots arc down from the Turian fleet, the ground forces marching into the Shanxi colony, the blood that ran thick in the streets. Allies…how could Turians and Humans be allies after First Contact?_

_-From the Final Will and Testament of Major General Markus Broye._

The sun shone brightly on the lush fields of Eden Prime, reflecting off, and refracting through the morning dew that covered the grass. Children laughed as the first games of the day were joined with enthusiasm only rivalled by yesterday's mad rush to the playground. Construction workers curse foully when they realised a section of the reinforced concrete they had laid down the previous day had not set properly. Mechanical clanks echoed over the ripe landscape as farmers started up their machinery, eager to plant the new crop.

Far outside of the main encampment however, a much different sound could be heard. Grunting, load and in rhythm. A man hung by his legs from a specially erected crossbar, doing sit-ups suspended in that odd position. He was naked from the waist upwards, while from the waist downwards he wore Alliance combat pants. His combat boots were well worn, but had a noticeable sheen of spit polish to them, showcasing the Sergeant's strict adherence to military procedure.

**(Background Music for this chapter: Ready for War and Never Stoppin' – DansonnBeats) **

**Note: Give DansonnBeats' YouTube channel some love. All the content is made by him.**

At first glance, he himself appeared in all respects to be the epitome of the grizzled combat veteran archetype. He was tall, but not overly so, with a strong upper body and defined six-pack. His hair was cut short, almost non-existent in firm accordance with military dress code, while his soul patch was trimmed in such a way, as to remain compact and unobtrusive. His skin was dark, but not overly so, suggesting his nationality to be centred on Eastern bloc countries.

This was confirmed by the patch on his jacket, which bore the flag of Uzbekistan. His dog tags agreed, listing him as thirty-four year old Adil al Meskin, militia Sergeant in the EVF (Eden Volunteer Force). In fact, none of this was anything other than a front that had been meticulously constructed to hide Adil's true motives.

He was employed by a secretive para-military group known only to the Systems Alliance and the Salarian STG. The former did their best to hunt them down whenever possible, and the Salarian STG were at that moment split between three main opinions. Those who believed that the Warband existed, those who thought that Alliance counter-intelligence had invented the fairy tale to screw with them, and finally the ones who thought that the Warband was a small cult set up after First Contact. The majority was obviously the former, as the Salarians were quite convinced that their intelligence gathering was far superior to any other races. If there was information to be found on the Warband, they would have discovered it by now.

Then, when they were finally getting comfortable with that assumption, another agent sent to gather information on the Warband would turn up dead, and they would be forced to revise their position once again. In this way it was clear to see how highly someone like Adil valued his anonymity.

Adil continued his training, hanging by his legs from the crossbar and doing the strange sit-up like motion with his hand firmly clasped on the back of his head. He could feel the cold, unforgiving metal poking out of his head at the base of his skull. The biotic implant was custom made by his handlers, made to output just as much biotic energy as the L2 implant favoured for years by the Alliance BAat training program on Jump Zero. In fact it was almost exactly like the L2, and only Adil's preparation at the hands of his superiors held the famous L2 "spaz-outs" at bay.

In fact, his training was abnormal for any member of the conventional military. The Salarians had not been far off when several of them had concluded that the Warband was a "cult" of some sort. The sweat that dripped from his body, along with a fair bit of morning dew certainly spoke volumes regarding his mechanical, almost maniacal devotion to his doctrine. Muscles strained, synthetic strength enhancements and advanced skin weave stretched, and the uniform scaring on his back rippled.

Finally, when any sane individual's eyes would have been watering in sympathy, Adil unhooked his legs, and with the grace of a predator, eased himself down leisurely. He braced with his shoulder and arm, preventing himself from tumbling onto the ground in an undignified fashion. Not that he gave a shit, but the sweat induced mud beneath him was something he had learned to avoid the hard way.

Now that his morning drill was through with, he was free to have breakfast. Prowling back into the observation post, Adil opened his cooler and extracted a grey bag which he proceeded to open with his combat knife. Pouring all of the white powder into a large metal bowl, he added boiling water and stirred until he had a respectable goo. Breakfast was served. He had of course just prepared twice the daily ration of nutrient paste, and although a biotic appetite demanded he eat it all, any other biotic would have turned up his nose.

Alliance MRE's were truly terrifying to anyone with functioning taste buds. Not Adil however, who stood at the entrance to his hut and ate spoon after spoon of the disgusting slop. He was a military man first and foremost; eating bad food, slumbering in a hut with only a sleeping bag, weapons locker and cooker, spending most of his day scanning the horizon unflinchingly for possible threats to the dig site…it just came with the territory. Privately, he admitted that he had forgotten how hard it had been for him at the beginning of his military career. Openly, he maintained that anyone who complained about their MRE should be beaten for an hour straight and made to go without until they learned to keep their mouths shut.

You were meant to eat the terrible food, to sleep in the mud for as long as you physically could, to shut up and listen instead of running your mouth off. It was that lifestyle that made the best soldiers: the ones who could force themselves to march on until their feet were bloody, then conduct themselves as they were expected too in combat.

The beep of Adil's Omni-Tool drew him out of his thoughts, reminding him that the food he had remaining was getting cold, and the only thing worse than military nutrient paste, was cold military nutrient paste. He finished his MRE swiftly, letting the spoon clatter into the bowl, then he checked the wrist computer. It was the sign in messages from the rest of his team, sent four times daily to ensure constant contact between the Warband operatives. He, as squad leader was the recipient of the messages, and once received his job was to send them a confirmation message so they would know everything was copasetic.

This he did, but not before he spotted an extra message from "Long-John", his pointman, and second in command. He opened it warily, knowing full well that none of the squad ever sent him unimportant or unnecessary mail.

_Prodigy _it read,

_There will be a surprise inspection on the dig site,_

_ETA 10 mikes,_

_Long-John._

Short and to the point, he would have to tell Long-John that his personality disorders were showing signs of clearing up.

Seven minutes later, Prodigy sat up in the oversized deer stand next to his hut, as an M-45 light tactical vehicle drew up, and two Alliance officers got out. He checked his watch, and allowed himself a small smile. Long-John had timed it perfectly, as always.

He stood, clipping his pistol holster across the combat harness he wore over his jacket, and then sliding in the popgun that the Alliance issued to the militia. It was hardly worth carrying, but sometimes a sidearm, even an abysmal one came in handy in certain situations. If he got dispirit he could always trade the ammo block to Barb and use the empty gun to hammer nails.

The harness was more useful, even if it was just a basic model. Straps ran around the waist, up the backbone, around the shoulders and it could be zipped up the front. Pouches were clipped to the waist strap, already filled with Prodigy's gear. Three fragmentation grenades, two extra ammunition blocks for his M-8, five smoke grenades and a pair of different optics.

Lastly, he picked up his M-8 Avenger and headed for the ladder to his little tower. The first officer he clearly recognised as 1st Lieutenant Durant, liaison between the Alliance marines on Eden Prime and the local militia. He was a tricky case, and Adil was always careful around him. Durant was sharp as a tack, and rather inconspicuous for a man who made his living lying to large groups of people. "Sergeant, get over here, on the double!"

Adil sped up, sliding down the ladder with the M-8 firmly gripped in one free hand. It paid to obey orders promptly, even though as a militia Sergeant, Durant essentially had no authority over him. In less than three seconds, he was on firm ground, and striding forwards to meet the two officers. He saluted with mechanical efficiency and stood at attention.

Durant was trying to keep a straight face, sense of humour winning out over his military training. Sloppy, Prodigy thought, very sloppy. The second officer however was staring at Prodigy, nonplussed at being saluted by a militia Sergeant. He didn't blame her honestly, the militia was as disorganised as it was possible to be. "At ease Sergeant, this here is Captain Ashley Williams, formerly of the SSV Trafalgar."

Adil's face remained blank, but he knew her a soon as he heard the name Williams. "Fleet Admiral Williams' daughter. It's an honour ma'am."

"Yes Sergeant," she said coolly, making it entirely obvious to Adil that she disliked always being associated with her father. The man was a hero, known throughout the galaxy as the man who had commanded the defence of Shanxi, and held it for three months until the Alliance fleet arrived. What the history books hadn't say, was that members of he yet unformed Warband had done most of the actual work, securing Anti-Air positions and taking over a Turian Cruiser when the going got really bad.

"And she is here to conduct a surprise inspection of the dig site; make sure that everything is ship shape and Bristol fashion."

Durant smiled warmly, but Prodigy was use to is bullshit by now. Durant's tell was a small twitch on the left corner of his mouth, and Prodigy spotted it in seconds. "You mean you don't want her to see the shambles that is the rest of the militia."

Durant's smile shrunk a few molars, and Adil grinned internally. Though he never allowed himself to take any pleasure out of ousting the Lieutenant at every turn, he still did it now and again. At least he could give the impression of having more emotion than a slice of bread. Durant probably wasn't out here for that however. It was the Prothean beacon; Williams had heard from the locals about the new discovery and was checking to see.

She wasn't the only one that the beacon had attracted. Broye had pulled major strings to put the four man response team here on Eden Prime. That he had managed to do it before the beacon had even been discovered was what struck Adil the most, like he had known it was their before anyone else. Broye was counter-intelligence; that was the explanation offered to him informally by OpCom, or former Counter-Intel anyway. He was one of the guys who paid respectable cash to know these things before everyone else.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" Adil asked gruffly, "I'll escort you to the dig, you can have your look around, and then we can all get back to doing our **actual** jobs." Williams bristled at the comment, then fell silent when she saw the implant poking out of the base of his skull. L2's where known for being grumpy motherfuckers, and she knew one of those implants on sight.

Durant and Williams followed Adil's lead as he climbed into the back of the M-45 and rested his rifle across his lap. Durant was driving, while Williams had taken shotgun. For the first few seconds of the ride, Adil entertained himself with the thought of slitting Durant's bothersome throat and pumping a round through Williams' head. He tossed the idea aside, bored with it for the moment. "So Sergeant, you seem like a very dedicated militia-man. Ever considered joining the **actual** military?"

Adil opened his eyes and met those of Williams, who was looking at him through the rear view mirror. Her smile was sincere and genial, and he knew at once what sort of a Captain she was. She wanted to be the one who helped out her crew, who listened to their difficulties and understood. Well, it might have worked with her crew, especially with how form fitting some of the alliance dress uniforms were, but it had no effect whatsoever on him.

"No, ma'am."

Williams waited for him to elaborate, and then when he did not she pressed on. "You act very much like a military man Adil, are you sure you haven't been in the Alliance?"

Prodigy gave her a look that very much resembled a glare, but not close enough to it for her to be sure. "No ma'am, I have not. And its Sergeant ma'am, not Adil."

She frowned, and turned to Durant who laughed good-naturedly. "Would you like to know the story behind this guy or what? I'll tell you, it's a real peach!"

Ashley raised an eyebrow, "What's the story?"

Adil would have groaned if he had given a shit about what was going to transpire. Durant didn't know enough about him and his squad to cause any tangible damage. Durant was after all, just an overpaid paper pusher. He didn't have any remarkable training to speak of, and Adil knew that all too well. Perhaps too well, for when Durant finally got over the sudden burst of enthusiasm at having the Captain's attention, he let loose.

"Well, about two months ago four colonists turned up at the Eden Prime landing strip, started asking around for the man in charge of the colonial militia. Of course they were referred to me," Durant preened under Williams' fascinated gaze. "Well they had a pretty specific bunch of conditions in return for their services to the militia. They wanted to be assigned as far away from the main colony as possible, they wanted to have certain duties allocated to them, and they wanted the whole nine yards of things I wasn't authorised to give them.

"So I hit up command with this same story, and surprise, surprise: they already knew about these jokers," Adil gave a warning growl low in his throat that made Durant start in his seat, "Watch your mouth Sir."

Williams' smiled, the corners of her mouth turning up almost imperceptivity. "So," Durant continued, giving Adil an awkward glance, "they sent over all the paperwork, already signed and copied. At first I thought someone was having me on, because command never sends you the paperwork. They make you fill it out yourself and miss your dinner-date with the wife, but they never do it themselves."

Ashley nodded, knowing full well what Alliance command was like with paperwork. But everything had to be documented to maintain a good logistics department, and all warfare was based on good logistics. "So they approved all of it," Durant said knowingly, "and a few days later we uncovered the top of the Prothean beacon. And guess who had been assigned to guard the dig site not a day before?"

Ashley turned slowly to regard Adil, who once again had his eyes closed and gave the impression in almost every respect, to be ignoring them. She now regarded him with a newfound mix of caution and thoughtfulness. If the emotionless Uzbek sitting in the back seat was what Durant was implying he was, she had been toying with Special Forces. N7 maybe, or a specially assigned Alliance Marine. Either way, his rank would be equal, if not above hers if the Alliance saw fit to pull strings to get him this position.

"So, my guess is Alliance Special Forces," Durant said, mirroring Ashley's own thoughts. "I think they sent him and his squad here to protect the beacon."

He looked at the rear view and addressed the "Special Forces" Sergeant, "What do you think Sergeant, am I close or am I close? Tell me I'm close!"

Adil opened his eyes to tell Durant to fuck off, not having the patience to deal with their misinterpretation of events. Then he stopped, noticing Durant's tell. He was lying….not only was he lying, he was fishing for information. Trying to appear like the incompetent joker so he could loosen Adil's lips. He was trying to play the Warband agent.

Adil's face still maintained his perfect poker face as alarm bells went off all throughout his mind. Durant knew…Prodigy had no idea how, but the fucker knew. Maybe not who they worked for, but undeniably he knew that they did not belong, and they were a security threat to the Alliance. He had not come forward with his suspicions however, else Prodigy and his squad would be under confinement.

Adil remained silent for the rest of the trip, not wanting to give away his newfound awareness. Durant smirked and went back to driving, no doubt believing that he had struck out again. Just how badly he had however, was something known only to Prodigy.

They arrived at 0800 hours, pulling up short of the security cordon established around the boundaries of the dig site. Turrets, some automated and others manual, dotted the defensive fence, ready to unleash death on any unwary creature that ventured into the kill zone. The local wildlife had long been programmed out of the targeting parameters, so there was not as much collateral damage as there used to be. When the turrets had first been set up however, the expanse of dead animals sprawled around the fence had been considerable.

The 2nd Frontier Division had no choice but to use them and correct inevitable failures as they occurred. They did not have the manpower to spend on such a trivial matter, and even after the beacon had been discovered, all the Alliance could do was send over two or three LOKI mechs to supplement the two man fire team stationed there.

"Command: Form on me!"

As the trio exited the vehicle, they heard the female voice and the thump of metal booted feet. A woman approached them, in much the same getup as Prodigy, but sporting a much larger pistol. The two LOKI mechs plodded after her, obeying the Private's instructions. "Sergeant, I didn't realise you were coming!"

That was a lie of course, Long-John would have informed her of the inspection not seconds after he had informed Prodigy. But she hid the truth well, as was her training. Adil nodded in acknowledgement and walked past her, motioning as he did for all of them to follow. "Private, this is Captain Ashley Williams. Yes she is related to Fleet Admiral Williams, no we do not care."

Barb bobbed her head diligently, used to her squad leader's cold approach to command. He was never the warmest guy on the block, but then again he was psychologically conditioned not to be. They marched with Adil until he reached the centre of the dig site, at which point he stopped and stared at the three Alliance marines that where lazing around, weapons and gear haphazardly strewn on the ground.

If he had been their CO, they would have tanned hides by now. He shook his head in open derision and turned to Bear, his automatic rifleman. "What the fuck are these slackers doing here?"

The tall Scandinavian sighed, "They said they were here to relocate the beacon. Their taking it into the military compound in the colony. Their waiting for the diggers to bring up the transport."

"Well tell them that if they aren't out of here in the next ten minutes, they'll leave with the beacon jammed up their collective ass!"

The feigned anger on Prodigy's part was loud enough to be heard by the marines, who frowned and glanced in the Sergeants direction. Luckily for them, his Omni-Tool took that chance to beep, throwing him off track. He brought up his Omni-Tool and answered the call.

"This is Adil."

"Valentine 1-1," the distorted voice of Markus Broye issued from Prodigy's earpiece, "You are to naturalise all Alliance personnel around the beacon and prepare for extraction. This planet is soon to come under imminent assault from several Geth warships. Leave Captain Williams alive, but put her somewhere safe. How copy, over."

Prodigy was stock still for almost a second until the order registered with his brain. Off the wall orders from Broye were common place, but this was abrupt even for the aging Major General. "Copy that Warlord 1-1, will comply, over."

The M-8 suddenly felt very light in his hands, and the trigger more inviting than usual. He allowed himself a moment of silence for what was about to transpire. Durant and the Marines would have to die, and Prodigy took no pleasure in knowing that he must be the one to do it. For a second, remorse shone through the cold interior, and he felt quilt. He looked up and caught Durant's gaze. What passed between them was a very short but profound exchange of emotions.

Durant could see the intent in Prodigy's eyes, the lights of the train roaring towards him in the darkness. Death approaching on the pale horse. Adil switched to his squads short range communications, and gave the order. "Priority targets: Marines, HVT: Williams; Engage, engage, engage!"

He lifted his M-8 and trained the short range optic on the terrified face. Bear and Barb hesitated for but a second before Bear grabbed Ashley and pulled her down, and Barb opened up with everything she had. Prodigy squeezed the trigger, and watched as his single round pulverized Durant's head. Blood spurted out, showering Ashley and Bear in the red liquid. Barb's M-8 tore through the Marines like a chainsaw through plywood. Unawares, unprepared and not a little lethargic, they never stood a chance.

"Warlord 1-1, all targets are naturalised, HVT secured. You are free to extract the package, over."

"_First and foremost, a soldier obeys orders. No matter how horrible they appear, no matter how guilty they will feel; for what is an army without a chain of command?" _


End file.
